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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28462443">Do Androids Dream of a White Christmas?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowhite_dahlia/pseuds/snowhite_dahlia'>snowhite_dahlia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Christmas Fluff, Connor is a Pisces, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Gay Robots, Ken Doll Android Anatomy | Androids Have No Genitalia (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Mentioned Cole Anderson, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Robot Sex, Robot/Human Relationships, Smut, Wire Play</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:02:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,108</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28462443</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowhite_dahlia/pseuds/snowhite_dahlia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor realizes he's about to experience his first Christmas ever. Hank wants to make sure it's a good one.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hank Anderson/Connor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Do Androids Dream of a White Christmas?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistoffLikeKristoff/gifts">MistoffLikeKristoff</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A Christmas present for MistoffLikeKristoff who always makes Christmas the loveliest time of year. &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It had been an innocuous comment, really. Connor’s programming—specifically, the segments targeted towards better social integration—was designed to prompt him to make light, conversational observations after about 40 to 50 seconds of silence. Remarks concerning the current or upcoming weather, events of note from the previous evening’s sport activities, and so on. Anything to help move the conversation along again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, these verbal lulls were quite common with Hank. It was one of many observations that Connor had made about him during their time together and quietly filed away: the lieutenant was a man who appreciated silence, who didn’t feel a need to fill all seconds with idle chatter. And, as they spent more time together, Connor found himself feeling the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, when said notification popped up, sometimes he would quietly dismiss it and allow the pair of them to sink into a comfortable quiet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tonight, however, as they sat placidly together on the couch of Hank’s living room, the evening’s basketball game playing on the TV in front of them, their silence seemed to have a weight to it. And as it didn’t always serve Connor to point these things out directly, he opted to go ahead and make his innocuous comment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can’t believe Christmas is in a week,” said Connor lightly, idly scrolling through the tablet in front of him. It was certainly faster for him to just download the news directly and parse through it, but he’d quickly discovered that him staring off into the middle distance, face blank, LED rapidly blinking, made Hank a bit uncomfortable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Actually,” continued Connor, tablet lowered, “I guess it’ll be my first Christmas.” He pursed his lips, eyebrows raised. “Huh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hank made a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hrm</span>
  </em>
  <span> of acknowledgement, lifting his beer bottle to his lips, eyes not leaving the action on the television, and Connor resumed his scrolling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Out of the corner of his eye, however, Connor noticed that Hank had failed to actually take the sip, the amber bottle hanging in mid-air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait, is that true?” asked Hank, leaning forward to place his drink on the coffee table, gray eyebrows knitting together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean, I can pull up a calendar if you don’t believe me—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The other part.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” realized Connor, straightening. “Well, technically, yes. I wasn’t fully activated until August of this year—well, I first came </span>
  <em>
    <span>online</span>
  </em>
  <span> in March, but the development team had to make several updates to my software as there were some initial connectivity issues—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I got it,” interrupted Hank, holding up a hand. And again, the eyebrows furrowed. Hank did this sometimes, lips pressed together as he mulled over an unspecified </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Despite Connor’s best computing, it was always impossible to know what, exactly, so he simply waited patiently as Hank’s eyes moved over the dim interior of his home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” said Hank suddenly, standing from the couch and switching off the TV. “Get your coat—and, uh, maybe your hat, too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are we going out?” asked Connor, fingers grazing at his LED self-consciously. It was a fairly obvious question, but Connor didn’t go out much these days. Despite Markus’ emphatically non-violent messaging, Detroit was still an epicenter of tension in the movement for android liberation. Hank didn’t want Connor to feel like he needed to hide, but it was clear that he still worried. So, Connor opted to stay close to the house. Luckily for him, Sumo made for pretty good company.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Hank was already at the door, buttoning his coat. No time for questions, clearly, so Connor moved to follow him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Be a good boy, Sumo,” the two called in unison as Hank opened the door for Connor. Briefly, the St. Bernard lifted his head to watch their departure before settling it back down on his paws.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unsurprisingly, the car ride was a quiet one. Street lights flashed past them as they travelled, illuminating the small mountains of snow that lined the street. Accessing his GPS, Connor attempted to map out hundreds of possible routes, trying helplessly to guess at their potential destination. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, I give up,” admitted Connor at last, shoulders slumping in the passenger seat. “Where, exactly, are we going?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s the matter? I thought you liked surprises,” replied Hank. His eyes were focused on the road but there was the faintest hint of a grin beneath his beard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do,” replied the android, trying to keep the defensiveness out of his tone. Surprises were hard to come by for Connor, what with the speed and variety of his pre-constructions. It’s why life with Hank was so intriguing (albeit sometimes frustrating) - he always kept Connor on his toes. “But sometimes I like to know where I’m being taken in the middle of the night.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s 8PM, Connor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> dodging the question.” A beat passed but Hank remained unmoved. “Come on, Lieutenant—aren’t I going to find out eventually?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“First of all,” replied Hank, holding up a finger. “I told you to stop calling me that when I’m off-duty, and second of all, you can quit your grousing because we’re here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Snapping his mouth shut, he turned to look out his window. a bright red, halogen glow filling Connor’s vision. A confusing combination of emotions surfaced in him as he realized that Hank had brought him to… a Target? Immediately his processor began spinning and as he shifted back towards Hank, he knew the older man could see the yellow confusion on the side of his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look,” began Hank as he cranked the gear shift into park. “It’s bad enough you gotta be cooped up in the house all the time while all—</span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>—settles down, and I know I’m not the most </span>
  <em>
    <span>festive</span>
  </em>
  <span> person to be stuck with, but—” he paused, nervously scratching at his stubble, eyes glued to the dashboard. “But if it’s gonna be your first Christmas, well, you know. You should at least have a damn tree or something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And there it was—that indescribable warmth that sometimes flowed through Connor’s circuits, that made his chest swell. He couldn’t help but smile as he tenderly reached out to touch the other man’s hand, gripped to the steering wheel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, alright,” grumbled Hank. “Get your hat on and let’s go—place is gonna be a goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>zoo</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And, no doubt, it was a zoo, but Connor didn’t particularly mind—it was nice to be out and, moreso, it was nice to be out with Hank.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stuff is probably going to be pretty picked over, so, you know—manage your expectations accordingly,” warned Hank as he pushed their cart along, the picture of domesticity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Got it,” agreed Connor, though he couldn’t really foresee any disappointment in his future. “Do you really not have any decorations?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hank gave a shrug. “After Sheila left, I just threw a lot of that crap out. Wasn’t really feeling the ah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>holiday spirit</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see,” nodded Connor, deciding to veer away from potentially painful territory. “So, step one, a tree?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Step one, a tree.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pickings weren’t quite as slim as Hank had anticipated, though the Christmas department of the store was more overrun than Connor would have thought. And yet, given what he knew about humans, should he really be surprised that there were still plenty of procrastinators flocking to this suburban Detroit Target in search of last-minute holiday cheer?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Meanwhile, Hank was clearly struggling with the tree selection process, evident by the way he was standing in the middle of the display, hands on his hips, eyes darting about.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, uh, any of these look good to you?” asked Hank, gesturing vaguely about, obviously hoping Connor would take the decision from his hands. For a moment, Connor frowned, surveying the potential candidates, LED blinking yellow under his cap. Space was the primary issue—Hank’s living room was already plenty cozy when occupied by two grown men and a 200 pound dog. Perhaps he could do some optimization of the furniture layout…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What about this one?” suggested Connor, stepping over to a faux green fir tree that was about his height and not terribly wide.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Christ,” muttered Hank, suddenly looking repentant. “I guess I should’ve asked if you wanted a real tree.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Again, Connor couldn’t help but smile. “I like this one,” he insisted. “It’s like me—looks organic but is actually synthetic.” Hank shook his head at the terrible joke. “Besides, we can keep this one for when we celebrate next year. It’s… cost-effective.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cost-effective,” repeated Hank, wearing that inscrutable look that he sometimes did when Connor spoke of the future—</span>
  <em>
    <span>their</span>
  </em>
  <span> future.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, into the cart with it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And so they continued on, making their way up and down aisles, slowly loading their cart with various bits of festive-ness: some decor for the tree, some garland for the mantle, a few strings of lights to put on the front of the house, a pair of ugly, light-up Christmas sweaters that Hank initially grumbled about but, once he saw how thoroughly charmed Connor was by them, quickly tossed them on top of the pile as well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, finally,” breathed Hank as they turned into another aisle, parking in front of a display of stockings. “You can’t really call it Christmas unless you have these bad boys hanging up,” he muttered, carefully studying the available options.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hank,” began Connor, tilting his head. “You do realize I was programmed with the knowledge that there’s no such thing as Santa, correct?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” retorted Hank, tossing a pair of stockings into the cart with annoyance. “Shit, we need to get one for Sumo, too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>He doesn’t even know what Santa Claus </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>is<span>—</span></em>
  </b>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You wanna ruin Christmas for a dog, Connor?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s just get checked out,” said Connor, pinching at the bridge of his nose.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At their approach, the checkout attendant eyed their cart with a bemused expression but was clearly too beleaguered to ask any questions, much to Connor’s relief. Instead, he watched as Hank swiped his credit card through the terminal and tried not to feel awkward about Hank’s generosity. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know, we should go to the grocery store tomorrow—it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> not Christmas unless you’re burning cookies in the oven,” mused Hank as he pushed their cart towards the exit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Connor laughed—that is, until he found himself nearly colliding into his companion’s back. Hank had stopped suddenly, and it only took a second for Connor to find what had halted him in his tracks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Coming into the store were a man and a woman, and swinging between them—excitement at the impending holiday absolutely brimming over—was a young boy. Unruly brown hair, ever so slightly asymmetrical dimples when he smiled, dark eyes, it was impossible to mistake: he was the spitting image of Cole.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An immediate wave of emotions flooded through Connor’s circuits, his processor spinning fruitlessly in an attempt to identify all of them. But, above all, there emerged a deep and aching longing to erase the pain that was agonizingly etched on to Hank’s face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After the family had continued past them, Connor moved to put a delicate hand on Hank’s shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Hank was already shrugging him off, and that ache in Connor only grew.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s get this in the car.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once again, the car ride was a silent one, but this silence was so much different. It had a weight to it that was so suffocating, so crushing, that it made Connor want to roll the windows down in an attempt to let out some of this awful, pressurizing tension.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he didn’t, of course, deciding instead to just sit quietly, hands folded neatly in his lap. There was something precarious in the atmosphere, and remaining still seemed the best course of action to avoid tipping anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they arrived back at Hank’s house, the lieutenant pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine, but made no move to exit. Instead, he slumped back into his seat, head bowed, a heavy sigh leaving him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, Connor,” he said at last, “It’s not really—I’m not trying to burden you with all my downer bullshit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not a burden,” insisted Connor gently, but his companion remained quiet. “Look, if this is too much, we don’t—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no,” said Hank, shaking his head. “I want to do this. I want to do this for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Connor took a deep breath, attempting to quell that swelling feeling in his chest again. “Hank,” he began quietly, his hand going to the other man’s knee. “I don’t want to replace any of your old memories—I just want us to make more. Together.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Again, Hank said nothing, but he covered Connor’s hand with his own, squeezing it tight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a while, he gave a small cough, clearing his throat. “Alright, let’s get inside before we freeze our asses off out here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smiling, Connor pushed open the car door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It didn’t take too many trips to load everything into the house, though the pair were occasionally slowed by Sumo’s persistent and curious sniffing at the strange packages, as well as Connor's futile insistence that Hank allow him to carry the heavier items. When they at last had everything inside, Connor set about unpacking the tree, meanwhile Hank put on some seasonal tunes (a vinyl recording of </span>
  <em>
    <span>White Christmas</span>
  </em>
  <span> - “Rosemary Clooney, a classic,” educated Hank knowingly.) Sumo, for his part, stayed out of the hubbub, preferring to flop down in one of his usual spots in the kitchen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And slowly but surely, Christmas began to come alive in Hank’s small house. Perhaps it was the overall lack of decor in the home, but there was something about all the red ribbons and bushy garland and colored lights that seemed to bring a new warmth to the place. And Connor guessed perhaps that was a bit of a reflection of Hank, too: something that seemed dim until a small change brought out its true demeanor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ready for me to turn on the tree?” asked Connor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait, wait,” said Hank, running over to the overhead light switch to flip it off. “We gotta witness it in its full splendor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Connor smirked, before tapping the switch with his foot. At once, the lights on the tree flickered to life, casting a beautiful, hazy glow over the room. Taking a few steps back, Connor stood at Hank’s side to quietly marvel at the great faux evergreen, in all its twinkling glory. Suddenly, he felt one of Hank’s strong arms wrap around his shoulders and pull him close and there it was once again: that swelling feeling, that weightlessness that made Connor feel like he might drift off into space if Hank wasn’t holding him to the ground.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he looked up to Hank’s face—still dimly smiling at the illuminated tree—his processor sorted through various images from popular media, of families seated before their own Christmas trees, unwrapping presents. Faces-half lit by Christmas lights, couples laughing as they fell into soft banks of snow, family pets curled up by fireplaces adorned with stockings. Images of joy, of tenderness, of intimacy. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This is it</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Connor thought to himself quietly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This is Christmas</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then, suddenly, the words fell out of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hank, I love you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hank’s face turned towards him, eyes meeting, and immediately Connor could see the blue glow of the thirium rushing to his face reflected on Hank’s skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I love you, too, Connor.” It was perhaps the softest Hank’s voice had ever been.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without another thought, Connor kissed him. He had intended it to be a chaste kiss, a tender kiss, but there was something about the weight of Hank’s arms around him, about the press of his body against his, that overwhelmed his sensors, making them practically crackle. He gripped at the front of Hank’s printed shirt, pulling him harder against his mouth, a signal which Hank easily read.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Briefly dipping down, Hank grabbed him behind the back of his thighs, easily lifting Connor’s legs up onto his hips, before carrying him towards the bedroom. Sumo watched the pair of them go, before deciding their departure wasn’t worth investigating as he lazily rolled on to his side, heaving a large sigh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once inside the dim bedroom, Hank rather unceremoniously dropped Connor to the bed, briefly breaking away to strip off his shirt. For a moment, Connor watched, always particularly enjoying this part—the opportunity to look at Hank’s unclothed form—before working at the buttons on his own shirt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t get terribly far before Hank’s lips were on his again, Hank’s hands eagerly freeing Connor’s shirt from his waistband.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hank,” whispered Connor, his hands coming up to Hank’s chest. “Are you sure this is okay?” He’d initiated and Hank was clearly reciprocating, but still. He didn’t want to be ignorant of Hank’s feelings, of his pain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re sweet,” huffed Hank, laughing a bit, which was already encouraging Connor. “I’m good if you are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I absolutely am,” assured Connor, making quick work of the last two buttons of his shirt and tossing it away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Good</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” murmured Hank. And then he was on top of Connor, hands on Connor’s thighs, lips on his ears, breath on his neck. Fruitlessly, Connor’s sensors struggled to keep up, attempting to process all the sensations he was experiencing, streams of data burning through his wires. Hank grinded against him and Connor could practically feel his CPU sputter, his LED flashing the briefest of reds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When it had spun back to yellow, he realized Hank was moving down him, trailing kisses along his neck, across his chest. In the month and a half since they had started down this path together, Hank had adapted quickly to the intricacies of Connor’s android body. Like so many of Cyberlife’s base models, the RK-800 did not come with what the company considered the “upgrade” of sexual components. But this hadn’t deterred Connor and it absolutely hadn’t deterred Hank in the least. In fact, as Connor journeyed towards autonomy, Hank had been an integral part of that, helping him explore and pursue these new concepts of “want” and “desire.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Connor shuddered as Hank’s breath brushed over his sternum, his synthskin instinctively ghosting away, revealing the circular cap of his thirium pump, nestled beneath where his ribs would be if he were flesh and bone and not plastic and circuits. Hank’s finger traced the edge of it, his lips kissing at the newly revealed, pristinely white surface, a teasing gesture. Another shudder vibrated through Connor and he balled the sheet beneath him in one of his fists.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hank.” There was a hint of static in his voice. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve gotten a little bossy lately,” ribbed Hank, and in the dim dark of the bedroom, he could see half a smile crossing Hank’s face. “Maybe I should keep you cooped up in the house more often.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Very funny,” mumbled Connor, pulling Hank back up towards him to plant a hungry kiss on his lips. Releasing the sheet, Connor snaked his hand down between them, massaging at Hank’s impressively firm erection. Hank moaned through their kiss, grinding into Connor’s hand. Message received.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, you win,” came Hank’s voice, hoarse in Connor’s ear. And at once, Hank was off him, urging Connor on to his knees, wrapping his hands on to the top of the headboard. Hank took his position behind the android, one of his hands coming to rest next to Connor’s, while the other busied itself with the buckle of his belt. As Connor felt his pants fall off his hips, an alert came across his HUD warning of an increase in his internal temperature. He quickly swiped it away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Behind him, Connor heard Hank undoing his own pants. Over his shoulder, Connor watched as Hank gave his length a few perfunctory pumps, spreading white beads of precum down along his erection.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Spread your thighs for me, baby,” instructed Hank gently. Connor at once complied, feeling the delicious heat of Hank sliding against the smooth plate of his groin, before closing his legs back together, creating even more sweet friction. Holding tight to the bed’s frame, Connor steadied himself as Hank took up a slow, even pace of thrusts. Again, the same temperature alert flashed across his HUD, and again he dismissed it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Slowly, one of Hank’s hands came around Connor’s waist, his thumb once again finding and tracing the smooth circle of his thirium pump. It felt like fire was burning Connor’s sensors, but he only wanted to get closer to the flame, his hips pushing back into Hank, urging him along. Hank took the hint, of course, the fingertips of his other hand brushing at the glowing seams of Connor’s abdomen. Immediately, his chassis slid open with an impatient hiss, inviting Hank’s hand inside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>More warnings flashed up in Connor’s display, but he gave up dismissing them—he had little processing power left to deal with them anyway, as his CPU was currently overloading with the sensations and information generated by Hank fingering his most delicate of internal components. Hank brushed a particularly sensitive connection inside his knot of wires and Connor gasped, his vision briefly fritzing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Feeling good?” Hank’s voice in his ear only added to the complex strings of data that were filling him, heating him from the inside out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Y-yes,” he panted. Forming complex sentences was beyond him at this point.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hank’s own breathing was coming harder now, his large chest hot against Connor’s back. Connor loved the feeling of his body against his, pressing into him from behind. As Hank’s thrusts began sacrificing depth for speed, Connor released his hold on the headboard with one hand and reached back to grasp at Hank’s hip, his fingers squeezing at the soft flesh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The alerts were becoming more insistent, more frantic, practically filling Connor’s HUD as it occasionally flickered, struggling to keep his vision in focus. His LED was spinning a dizzying yellow— flickering as well—but Connor was determined to hold out, wanting so desperately to experience the rush of Hank’s orgasm with him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Connor’s computers didn’t have to wait long, as he soon felt Hank’s body tensing behind him, a low groan ripping free from his lips. And then Hank was coming, hard, down on the sheets between Connor’s knees, as Hank’s hips stuttered against him. A quiet </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> left Hank’s lips, like a little prayer, and it only sent Connor further to the edge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Hank had recovered, he redoubled his efforts on his android partner: one hand lost in the electric glow of Connor’s internal components, while the other felt for the lock on his pump casing. Delicately, Hank popped it free, a perfected move and one so intimate Connor couldn’t imagine trusting anyone else with it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With his pump freed, Connor’s sensitivity went into overload: every flick of Hank’s fingers felt like it was enough to rupture his very motherboards. The warnings in his HUD were overlaid so thick he could barely make out the wall in front of him, but he couldn’t care. All his attention was absorbed by feelings of heat and longing and inundation and aching and </span>
  <em>
    <span>christ</span>
  </em>
  <span> it just felt so good.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Flecks of red began swirling in Connor’s LED, the telltale sign that his release from this overload was so close. Hank must’ve noticed, as he wrapped a strong arm around Connor’s waist before whispering in his ear, “Go on, baby—I’ve got you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At once, Connor’s vision went a blinding white, his LED flashing a red so bright, he swore it was burning. And then, everything was black.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As Connor’s systems slowly came back online, at first he could only hear the hum of his internal cooling systems, all desperately trying to re-regulate his temperature. He sucked in a deep breath and one by one, things became operational again. Eventually, he became aware of Hank’s hands, soothingly stroking his back, Connor’s forearms folded over the top of the headboard. Eventually, his strength came back to him and Connor pushed himself upright, pulling up his pants before coming to sit on the edge of the bed alongside his partner.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Feel okay?” asked Hank, still rubbing at his back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Connor nodded, pushing a hand through his hair. “Are you okay?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hank let out a little laugh. “Yeah. Thanks for always being so sweet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course,” whispered Connor, leaning his head into the crook of Hank’s neck. He breathed deep, enjoying Hank’s musk. ”Thanks for tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Connor could feel Hank smile as he pressed his cheek into Connor’s hair. “You’re welcome. Merry Christmas, baby.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Merry Christmas, Hank.”</span>
</p>
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